


Hank and the Mechanical Man

by Reis_Asher



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Clockpunk, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Android Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Clockmaker Hank Anderson, Clocks, Cole Anderson Dies, Complete, Damaged Biocomponents (Detroit: Become Human), Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, M/M, Penis In Vagina Sex, Prince Gavin Reed, Protective Hank Anderson, Temporary Character Death, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-01-21 06:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21294905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reis_Asher/pseuds/Reis_Asher
Summary: In an alternate universe, Hank is a troubled clock maker in the Kingdom of Detroit, mourning the loss of his son in a carriage accident. When he trips over an abandoned contraption on his doorstep, he finds the broken machine is none other than a mechanical man the likes of which he's never seen. The damaged machine needs help after a brutal attack at the hands of Prince Reed, and Hank can't bring himself to let such a beautiful work of art be destroyed.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

The hours were long, every second measured by a thousand ticking clocks, each quarter-hour marked by a chime.

Damned noises. Hank imagined on many nights taking a hammer to every clock he’d created, destroying the hand-crafted timepieces he'd dedicated his life to. Coils and springs so painstakingly pieced together would explode across the floor, cogs twisted beyond repair. The ticking that haunted his dreams would come to a sudden stop like the beating of his own heart the moment his son Cole died. The boy had been crushed by a panicking horse after a carriage accident. Hank had been powerless to save him, the cuts and scrapes he sustained an insult when it should have been him crushed beneath the weight of a dying animal. It wasn’t fair that the world moved on. The Earth should have stopped spinning, the second hand forever stuck in place, the cuckoo trapped outside its nest, never to return to mark the passing of another hour.

Damn time and the measure of it. Damn every second that passed in a world without his boy in it. Hank thought about destroying his little shop every night when he drank, but without it, what was binding him to this world at all? His work was all he had left, even if it was a cruel reminder of how slow the passage of time had become since Cole’s death.

A sob escaped his mouth as he thought about destroying the clocks. Smashing the little drummer boy and the pretty cuckoo Cole had loved would be a crime and he knew it, but the alcohol running through his veins often turned into a heavy, maudlin frustration, an urge to ruin what little remained of this life so he could join Cole in the next.

He sat down to work on a clock repair beneath candlelight, the wax almost burnt down to the wick. He couldn't afford to fire up the gas lights for such small jobs as these. The little springs seemed to elude his large, clumsy hands, which had developed a tremor as of late. Drinker’s shakes, they called it, and he knew there were whispers down at the tavern that he was there too often. Judgment turned to pity as the reason for Hank's condition slipped out of the tavern keeper's mouth. To them, Hank was akin to a tragic figure from a novel, doomed to a slow death of despair, widowed through childbirth only to lose his son after all. The local folk largely avoided him, lest the curse of ill fortune rub off on them as well. Now and then some soul would buy him another round. Occasionally the doctor would gently warm him about the dangers of the drink, but Hank was too far gone to care.

Hank slammed his fists on the workbench, sending a dozen tiny cogs and springs flying in all directions. He hadn’t been able to work since the accident, not successfully, at least. He seemed to break as often as repair, and people took their heirlooms elsewhere to be fixed, lest he break them to match his heart. He tossed his tools aside, giving up. There was no focus to be found this night.

The tavern it was, then. Maybe Old Glenn would put a bottle of whiskey on his tab, that he might drink in solitude until he could forget. He’d regret it in the morn, but that was a thousand years away. Perhaps his soul might cross over in the night and he'd never have to face it.

He stumbled to the door, pulling on his overcoat and hat. The tiny bell that had welcomed many a customer rang as he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

“Woah!” Hank fell, lurching forward before sprawling onto the sidewalk. He’d tripped on some piece of junk a fool had seen fit to leave on his step. Some mechanical contraption like he’d never seen before, with arms and legs just like a human. The sting of his skinned palms barely registered above his curiosity as he scrambled to his knees to inspect the pile of clockwork.

It was a mess, for sure. Cogs, springs and wires jutted out of holes in its hull. Its shell was made of a while pearlescent material, with a pattern that shone under the gas lamplights. Its hand moved to reveal the most beautiful face Hank had ever seen, that of a sweet, freckled boy—no, no mere boy. A man with a boy’s charm, built to a man’s height, clothed in a man’s waistcoat and pants. A master craftsman had built this doll, but a savage had torn into it, damaging it enough to make oil seep out of slashes in its torso.

“I need help...” The doll’s voice was high and tight, the perfect mimicry of a man in pain. Hank’s eyes widened, wondering if this was the work of God or the sinister hand of the Devil at work. He barely believed in such things since the accident, but he crossed himself anyway. Couldn’t hurt to ask the Lord for a favor here, even if He had seemed deaf when Hank had pleaded for his son’s life as he lay bleeding out.

“What the hell are you?” Hank asked, awe, fear, and curiosity mingling.

“I am… an… autonomous… humanoid… My name… is Connor…” Its words were unclear, its otherwise soft voice obscured by the sound of rushing air and grating screeches that made Hank grit his teeth. This thing was broken, and it needed attention.

Seemed like the only logical thing to do was take it inside.

“All right,” Hank said. He lifted the machine, surprised how lightweight it was. “Let’s see if I can get you fixed up." He slung the machine over one shoulder and lurched as he fumbled for his keys on the chain attached to his belt. The big key for his front door tried to elude his slippery grasp, but he managed to slip it into the lock and turn. The door yielded and he stepped inside, kicking it shut with his foot. The door slammed, glass rattling in the panes, bell tinkling out an alarm, but he paid it no mind as he strode into his workshop. He cleared the mess from his bench with one arm and set Connor down. He decided it was occasion enough lit the gas sconces on the walls, filling the room with a soft glow so he could get a good look at this unusual piece.

Underneath the light, it was clear to see Connor had been attacked. Hank undid the buttons on his waistcoat, pulling it aside to get a better look at the slices on Connor's torso. The substance leaking from his wounds wasn't oil, as Hank had first suspected, but some kind of viscous blue substance, similar to blood in all but color.

"Maybe it's a doctor you need," Hank muttered. "I dunno if I can help you."

"I'll… try to… guide you…" Connor screeched. Hank gritted his teeth and reached for his toolbox. He used a clean rag to wipe away the blue oil. Underneath the sticky mess was a small panel. One screwdriver and four screws later, and the mystery of Connor's inner workings was on display. A vast, complex array of cogs turned, while tubes carried the blue blood-like substance Connor had been leaking up to a pump of the same color, vaguely resembling a human heart. He took note of a tube severed by the slash. That would have to be his first priority.

"I've never seen anythin' like this," Hank mused. "Not even the geniuses at the Institute could make something like you." He left Connor's side and reached up to the top shelf, where he kept the epoxy out of Cole's reach. He walked back around and glued the broken tube, painstakingly holding it together until he was sure it was firmly bonded. He checked it wasn't leaking, cleaning off the soaked components inside Connor's torso. They were fashioned out of copper, and Hank suspected he'd been targeted for it. The metal was in high demand. But then, why hadn't he been stripped bare?

Hank decided to shelve the mystery for now. "What's next?"

"That box…" Connor said, shakily pointing to a small unit with a slash cut right through it. "Disconnect it."

Hank gently pulled it out, easing it out of the nest of moving parts it sat upon. He carefully opened the small box, seeing a cog inside that was stuck due to a new groove the sword had cut into it. Hank removed it, swearing he'd used something similar in a clock he'd made some weeks ago. He went back out into the shop and grabbed it. Not one of his favorite things. It was plain and ugly, especially seeing it now, and had done nothing but gather dust, passed over by customers. It would take hours to painstakingly disassemble it, and from what he could tell, Connor didn't have that kind of time.

He lifted up the clock and smashed it against the side of the table, once, twice, thrice, until it cracked like an egg, granting Hank access to its inner workings. He'd damaged some common components, but nothing he needed. He fished the cog out of the sea of broken springs and replaced it with the one in the small box. Plugging it back into Connor, the little cog started to turn and a blue, circular light lit up on Connor's temple.

"Thank you, sir. My condition is stable. Most of the other damage is minor and I can repair it myself." Connor sat up, staring down at his hand and flexing it. "I believe I owe you an explanation." He worked as he talked, taking springs from the broken clock and replacing ones inside himself with them. "I was made to serve an ancient King, and was entombed with him in the ruins of his kingdom, some one-thousand years ago. I was recently disturbed by archeologists seeking to unearth the secrets of the ancient civilization. I was able to leave the camp without being noticed while the dig team slept, but I was assaulted by a man with a sword while walking the streets of this city. My scans told me that he is the descendant of the king I once served." Connor bowed his head. "When I tried to explain to him that I now serve him, he grew enraged and attacked me."

"Oh. That would be Prince Reed." Hank sighed. "He's got a bit of a reputation among the commoners." He glanced at the door, expecting the city guard to burst in at any moment. Disturbing the ancient ruins was a crime. Disrespecting Prince Reed—and his definition of disrespect was generous, to say the least—was an even more egregious outrage, and could see him hung for treason. 

He'd come this far, he might as well speak the truth. "You don't want to serve him. Even his father dreads him taking the throne. He's a cruel man, with a lot of blood on his hands. Rumor has it he's the one digging up the ancient city, lookin' for some weapon he believes is hidden there." 

The small light on the side of Connor's head circled red, giving the mechanical man a threatening aura at odds with his face. "A lot has happened since my King ruled this land, but the dead must be left to rest in peace. Prince Reed doesn't have the wisdom to use the weapon correctly." The light turned blue again, casting Connor's pretty face in its serene glow and the menace was gone, replaced by benign curiosity.

"So there is a weapon." Hank sat down on a wooden chair, charmed by Connor's look of confusion. "Guess I should explain a few things as well. We're at war, and we're losing. Our enemies across the river in Windsor have unlocked the power of magic. Our technology once gave us the advantage, but Prince Reed saw the head of the Institute hung for speaking out against him. Many of our best and brightest have fled the country, seeking to live in neutral lands. Can't say I blame 'em. The Kingdom of Detroit is finished, if you ask me."

Connor nodded. "I appreciate the update. I was confused as to the current situation. May I ask your name?"

"Oh, I'm Hank." Hank held out his hand, and was surprised when Connor took it and shook firmly. "Hank Anderson." Connor's cool metal hand slipped from his grasp.

"You are a clockmaker?" Connor finished reinstalling a side panel and hopped down off the table. He picked up the shell of the broken clock, turning it over in his hands. "You are quite skilled."

"I used to be. I don't think I've got it in me any more." The hankering for a drink came back. Hank had expected to be in bed by now, not sobering up in the company of a mechanical man. "Look at that clock. It was half an hour fast. I set it only this morning. It's gaining whole seconds by the hour. What use is a clock that can't accurately tell time?"

"Would you consider taking on an apprentice?" Connor asked. "It seems that I cannot complete my mission under the current circumstances. I was created to serve the royal bloodline, but I have been dismissed. Therefore, I must find a new purpose."

"I told you, I can't do it any more," Hank snapped. "I've lost my muse. Everything I create is garbage. I break things more than I make them. That's my curse. Ever since—" He stopped himself. He wasn't going to talk about Cole to—to this thing. For all he knew, it was some kind of magical spy, sent by Windsor to infiltrate the city. He stood up, no longer able to fight the urge to drink. Connor followed him like a lost puppy into the study, where Hank opened a bottle of whiskey and drew it to his lips. Connor stared at him with wide, innocent eyes, and he felt guilty for his habit.

"You should stop drinking. It's not good for your health. It may be the reason you are unable to work," Connor observed.

Hank's guilt turned to anger in an instant. "I didn't ask for your opinion, you rusty piece of junk. Why don't you go back to the ruin you came from and leave me alone?" He watched Connor turn away and leave the study, walking through the maze of clocks that led to the front door. The mechanical man was going to do as he was asked, and Hank would never see him again. Never unravel the mystery of how a machine could walk and talk like a human being. He'd be alone again, just him and his misery. The conversation he'd had with Connor had been the best one he'd had in weeks, and he was fucking it up like he'd fucked up Captain Fowler's heirloom pocket watch. The seaman, his oldest and last friend, had abandoned him after that, his last words to him a curse for breaking his lucky charm before he headed to the coast to sail out for uncharted waters. Hank suspected that even if he returned, he'd never come to visit Hank again.

Hank's legs moved of their own accord, his large stride easily catching up with the mechanical man. He grabbed Connor's arm before he could open the front door and step out of his life forever. He jerked on his arm until Connor was forced to turn and look at him.

"Wait. Look. I guess I could use another pair of hands around here. Someone with steadier hands to help with the business. I can't pay you anythin', but you can stay in the back room, outta sight, and I won't tell anyone you're here. You go traipsin' around out there, you're likely to get sold for scrap." Hank sighed. "We're not allowed to go near the ruins. If anyone finds out you're here…"

Connor's eyes seemed to sparkle in the low light, a boyish smile crossing his face. Hank was tempted to reach out and touch his hair. He really was a work of art. Prince Reed's ancestors must have had an eye for beautiful things. It was Reed's loss that he didn't. Reed's loss, and his gain.

He ruffled Connor's hair, the brown strands as smooth as silk beneath his rough fingers. "Off you go, then," he said. Connor walked back to the workshop and Hank once again raised the whiskey bottle to his lips, convinced he'd wake in the morning to find Connor to be nothing more than a drunken mirage.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: There's some alcoholism/alcohol abuse on Hank's part, and Cole is dead in this AU. Hank details some suicidal ideation in this chapter. There will be romance and sex later on.

Hank woke late, his head pounding from a brutal hangover. He squinted his eyes shut against the light pouring in through the curtains, pulling the blanket over his face. It wasn't enough, however. His brain was two sizes too large for his skull, and his bladder was threatening to let loose regardless of the presence of a toilet.

The sound of knocking on the front door startled him into alarm as he recalled the previous night's events. That had just been a dream, hadn't it? He hadn't really taken in a mechanical man off the streets and helped fix him, right?

The banging persisted, and Hank felt himself sober up as a loud yell reached his ears. "City guard! Open up!"

"Fuck," Hank muttered. He pulled on his pants and shirt which were draped over a nearby chair and staggered to the front door, knowing he looked like a disheveled mess. He unlocked the door, pulling it open to a red-faced, middle-aged guard with a cloak to match and armor that barely fit. 

"Whaddya want, Ben?" Hank slurred, hoping his unpleasantness would make the timid soldier retreat. The local guard was a familiar face at his shop, bringing him timepieces from the palace that needed repair on a regular basis. His armor barely fit and he was quickly out of breath when chasing down suspects, but Hank had grown fond of the guy. Perhaps, if he wasn't so wrapped up in his grief, they might have even been friends.

Ben cleared his throat. "I apologize for the intrusion, Hank, but I'm searching for an automaton. Some kind of walking, talking machine that's got the locals up in arms. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you? The last sighting of it was on this street."

"An automaton?" Hank squinted. "What, did some inventor's experiment just grew legs and walk away? What's the world comin' to…"

Ben nodded. "It may look like an adult man to the untrained eye, but it is a machine that escaped from the ruins. Palace orders state it must be apprehended immediately. May I ask as to your whereabouts last night, Hank?"

"I was at the tavern until late," Hank groaned. "You know that." In fact, Sentry Collins had been the guard on duty the night of Cole's death. Try as they might, Hank and Ben's combined strength hadn't been able to lift the dead horse off of Cole. Not that it would have mattered much. The damage had already been done. He'd blamed the local sawbones for his incompetence, but in truth, Cole had been dead before his broken body hit the table. Hank held his head, wincing in pain. "Can't you just leave me alone?"

To Hank's chagrin, Ben persisted, and Hank wondered just how much he knew. Had he seen Hank pick up the broken, battered automaton off his step last night? "I know you had nothing to do with it, Hank, but Prince Reed is beside himself with anger. He damaged the machine with his sword after it chased him, claiming to be a servant of the royal family. When he came back with guards, the mechanical was gone. If it's connected to the ruins, it might be dangerous."

"Well I don't know a damn thing about any mechanical man. I don't remember much about last night at all, except the fuckin' barkeep cuttin' me off. Surprised I woke up in my own bed." Hank hung his head, ashamed to admit he was only slightly stretching the truth.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Nothing out of the ordinary happened on the way home?"

"Not that I remember. Look, Ben, I got no mind to be gettin' on the wrong side of the law. if I see anythin', I'll let you know immediately."

"All right, Hank." Ben visibly relaxed. "If you see something, make sure to report it to the palace at once. If this thing came from the ruins, we have no idea what it might be capable of." He lowered his voice. "Honestly, we got no business messing with that ancient technology at all. Who knows what curse Prince Reed might unleash on us all?"

Hank nodded. "I'll let you know if anything changes." He herded Ben off his doorstep and closed the door. He waited for Ben to wander out of sight before exhaling a long sigh of relief. He padded into his workshop to find Connor sitting at the workbench, putting the final touches on repairing the clock Hank had broken last night.

"You didn't have to do that…" Hank trailed off.

Connor looked up at Hank with a mixture of warmth and sorrow in his eyes. Hank could hardly believe those expressive orbs belonged to a machine and not a human being. Whoever crafted Connor possessed technology and craftsmanship far beyond his own. He hadn't cared much about the ruins before now, but he couldn't help but wonder what other treasures lay beneath the dirt.

"I felt sorry for it," Connor explained. "It was a beautiful piece, broken in the most brutal of ways by someone who did not appreciate it."

"You're nothin' like that clock," Hank pointed out. "You're a work of art. That's somethin' I made while going through the motions."

"You may not see the aesthetic quality in it, but I thought it was perfect. Look at the details. The hard lines, capturing the light and drawing the eye towards the time. Reminding humans that for them, time is limited." Connor wound up the clock and it clicked, the second hand ticking forward.

"Never expected a machine could have an eye for art. If you like the thing so much, you can keep it," Hank said. He rooted around in a cabinet for a draft the apothecary had sold him. It always helped with the nausea and pain of a hangover. He found the small bottle and cracked it open, downing a sip while Connor talked. It was vile, but he forced himself to swallow and put the bottle back on the shelf.

"I have no need of a timepiece," Connor stated. "My internal chronometer keeps perfect track of time." He blinked, the light on the side of his head swirling red. "What is that mixture?"

"Ah. nothin'. I had a little too much to drink last night, that's all," Hank admitted. "This helps with the pain." He handed the bottle to Connor, who pulled out the cork. 

Connor dipped his finger inside and licked a droplet of medicine off his finger. "You should not drink this."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I'm serious, Hank. It contains trace elements of mercury and arsenic, both of which are hazardous to human health. In high enough doses, it could kill you."

"What do you care, anyway?" Hank snapped. He didn't enjoy being told what to do in his own home, though if he was being honest Connor's revelation startled him. The medicine, toxic? He thought he'd wanted to die, but the thought of being poisoned and languishing in agony turned his stomach.

"You saved my life," Connor pointed out. "I heard the guard. The prince is looking for me. I wanted to stay and become your apprentice, but I cannot afford to put you at risk."

"You won't survive out there. Your kind… don't exist in our world. You can't walk around the city lookin' like that and not get picked up or hurt by someone." The thought of anything happening to Connor made Hank's gut twist even more into a knot than it already had. "I don't care about pissin' off Prince Reed. Despite being a royal patron for years, he…" Hank bit his lip. "Never mind." This robot didn't need to hear his sob story about Cole. He didn't need a machine to feel sorry for him. He wandered out of the workshop, through his shop and back into his living quarters, where he finally emptied his bladder and washed up.

Feeling slightly better, he emerged from the back room to find Connor wandering through the aisles of his shop, looking at the clocks with a boyish wonder on his face. "You made all of these?"

"Yeah." Hank nodded. "Not so many folks can afford them, these days. Detroit used to be a prosperous kingdom, but since the war started, people can barely afford to eat. Clocks are a symbol of wealth, now. Only nobles can afford the luxury of time." Hank shook his head. 

Connor nodded. "You should open up the shop. It's past noontime."

"I don't open up on Sundays. Shoulda gone to church, but I can't say I've been attendin' since… for a while. Royal decree says the holy day is off limits for sales, anyways. Usually I do my repairs, but I don't have any to take care of at the moment. When the tavern opens, I'll probably go get a drink."

"Why don't you show me your craft, instead?" Connor suggested.

Hank shrugged. "You fixed that clock all by yourself, kid. I don't think there's much I can show you. You seem to know how things work. I'd say it's on account of you being mechanical and all."

"Does that bother you?" Connor asked.

"Never seen a mechanical that could walk and talk before, but the fact that you came from the ruins makes me leery. Prince Reed is looking for a weapon down there. Might that be you?"

"I… I don't know," Connor admitted. He looked startled. "I don't remember."

"That's not exactly reassuring. Ben said I should turn you in, and he's usually right about things." Hank sighed. "Call me selfish, but I don't wanna turn you over to Prince Reed. He was the kind of boy to pull the legs off insects. He'll tear you apart just to see how you tick."

"I would certainly find it regrettable to be… interrupted." Connor's doe-like eyes sparkled in the low light, and the silence that drew out between them was broken only by the chime of a thousand clocks striking out the half-hour. The noise was deafening, but neither Hank nor Connor flinched.

"You're not a prisoner here. If you want to go, I won't stop you. I'm just sayin', I don't mind taking the risk. I'm kinda… fascinated by you, to be honest. You shouldn't exist, and yet here you are. Walking and talking like a flesh and blood human being."

"I want to stay," Connor said. "Even if there's nothing you can teach me, I feel safe here, amongst these ticking clocks. Their cogs turn just like mine. I understand them." He glanced up at the cuckoo clock Cole had loved as the bird disappeared behind its door a final time. 

Hank looked down at the carpet, ashamed of every violent thought he'd ever harbored. If he ever carried out the threats he made to himself when he was drunk, would he hurt Connor? Would he smash the mechanical boy to bits along with the clocks in his inebriated rage, damning this lovely automaton to a permanent death?

He had to stop drinking, but he didn't know how. He'd never planned to leave this hole he'd dug in the earth for himself. It was supposed to be a grave beside Cole's. His plot was already paid for. He was simply bucking up the courage to use the crude pistol he'd bought on himself and end this miserable life. 

He hadn't counted on someone like Connor needing his protection. Needing him to live. It was frightening to think a life was depending on his again. He'd let Cole down. What if he let something happen to Connor, too?

The thought scared the hell out of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: There's some alcoholism/alcohol abuse on Hank's part, and Cole is dead in this AU. Hank has a few sexual fantasies in this chapter, and there is kissing at the end.

Time.

Hank had wanted it to speed up, to turn the clock hands forward on his life and hasten his inevitable death so he could be with Cole. He'd abused alcohol to this end, letting days, weeks, and months slip by in the years since his son's death. He remembered very little, like he'd spent time in a dream and now he was waking up.

Something about the awe in Connor's eyes, the reverence for art and creation in this mechanical man had awoken a sleeping dragon. Hank believed he would never feel the muse again, but it stirred inside him now. Connor was a miracle, a machine with a soul, a man made of cogs and gears and some kind of magic. If Hank was a simpler man, perhaps he'd have worshipped Connor as an ancient god, but instead his sweaty dreams turned to a different kind of worship.

It had been a long time since he'd felt desire, and he was surprised by the sticky seed covering his sheets upon waking. He couldn't help but be confused and embarrassed by it, too. Connor was a machine. He hadn't been created for carnal, animalistic pleasures of the flesh. He was closer in nature to the clocks Hank tinkered with than the men he sometimes took home from the tavern.

As Hank washed himself down with cold water at his bathroom sink, he felt ashamed of himself. He'd let too many things fall by the wayside for far too long. He should have found himself a partner by now, some nice young man who'd help him through his latter years and inherit the business and the craft. An apprentice to teach and a lover to take care of him.

Connor had wanted to be his apprentice, but he was already a master. He could fix anything with those finely crafted hands. He couldn't inherit the business, not when he was a wanted fugitive. Nor could he become Hank's lover.

Hank's head ached, though he suspected that was because he hadn't gone to the tavern at all last night. He craved a drink, but set himself straight with the thought of harming Connor in some drunken fit. The image of Connor's pretty face shattered beyond recognition was enough to stifle Hank's urge for now.

"Hank." Hank nearly jumped out of his skin as Connor walked into his tiny bathroom. Hank quickly covered himself with his towel. 

"You can't come in here!" Hank protested.

"Why not?" Connor gazed at Hank with wide, curious eyes, the little ring of light on the side of his head glowing yellow. "I used to help my king bathe and dress, as well as take care of more personal needs. I was his companion and concubine. I can help you."

"Well I don't need any help, thank you," Hank said, herding Connor towards the door and closing it behind him. He breathed out a long sigh, trying to quiet his mind, but it was too late. He'd already heard the word concubine, and his mind filled with images, his cock beginning to stiffen. He splashed himself with cold water, annoyed that his body and mind refused to co-operate with him. It didn't matter what Connor had been. Connor may have been created for an ancient king, but he was not Hank's. He was free of his obligation, but that didn't mean Hank was going to take advantage of Connor's situation for his own benefit.

With all this on his mind, Hank put his dirtier thoughts behind. He dressed quickly, aware that it was past time to open. He hadn't cared about his business of late at all, but something about Connor made him want to dust the cobwebs off his clocks and start making them again. He passed by the workshop, happy to note Connor was tinkering with something. Connor would have to stay out of sight during business hours, or there would be royal guards knocking down the door by noon.

Hank turned the closed sign to open and sat behind the counter, breathing in the atmosphere. He'd usually been buzzed by this hour as quick cure for his hangover from the night before, but here he sat, stone-cold sober, waiting for his first customer of the day. He wasn't too surprised when Ben opened the front door, carrying a large wooden box. He set it down on the counter.

"Hi, Hank. There's quite a collection of royal timepieces here. Seems like every clock in the palace went belly up in the last week." Ben pulled out a clock with springs coiling out of the back.

Hank nodded. "I'm happy for the work, Ben. I'm tryin' to quit the bottle."

Ben's gaze softened, the man's eyes belying his sadness and pity. "Well, good for you." His tone told Hank he meant well, but Hank suspected he was skeptical. He supposed he couldn't blame Ben for suspending his disbelief. How many times had the guard found him passed out on someone's doorstep and brought him safely home? Hank had lost count. Ben probably had, too.

"Well. I'll get these worked on as soon as I can." Hank pulled a clock from the box, looking at the shattered glass with a sigh forming. "Prince Reed went on one of his rampages again, didn't he?"

"I wasn't on duty at the time, but it seems so." Ben leaned in, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper as another customer entered the shop. "Rumor has it that he's extremely angry about this mechanical man business. His closest advisor suggested that he might have been mistaken about the whole affair, and Reed tried to have him executed. The King immediately pardoned the man, but he was sent from the palace." Ben sighed. "The old king is looking more and more frail these days, Hank. I'm worried about what's going to happen when Reed takes the throne."

"You and me both," Hank said. "If he really does find a weapon in the ancient ruins… what's he gonna do with it? Nothin' good, I'll bet. He'd sooner wipe out Windsor's entire population than face up to the fact we're losing the war."

Ben nodded as the customer came closer. "I'll be back in a few days to pick up whatever you can repair." He walked away, his armor rattling as he walked to the front of the shop. The customer stepped up to the counter, a nondescript noble who bought one of Hank's older clocks. He noticed, as he wrapped it up in tissue paper, that it had been freshly dusted and polished. The gold leaf shone brightly, and Hank handed over the gift-wrapped box with a smile. Once the noble left, he wandered into the back room, where Connor was already at work fixing the box of broken timepieces. Cogs, belts, and bottles of lubricant lay on the workbench, the internal workings of the clock deconstructed and laid out neatly.

"I can save the clock mechanism," Connor observed, "but the zeppelin that appears to fly around with the passage of time is beyond my knowledge."

Hank picked up the tiny gold blimp. "I made this one myself," he mused. "Wanted to commemorate the World's Fair, back when Detroit was proud of the things it made. Before this stupid, pointless war with Windsor."

"How did the war begin?" Connor asked.

"Prince Reed refused the hand of the Princess, despite the fact they were betrothed since childhood. The alliance might have weathered that, if Reed hadn't decided to call her an 'ugly sow' in front of the King. Makes sense that Reed attacked you, honestly. The savage wouldn't know beauty if it hit him with a hammer. Much less common sense."

"If this Prince is so universally detestable, why have the people not risen up to unseat him?" Connor asked. He used a tiny screwdriver to remove another broken piece of the clock's outside casing. Hank tried to swallow the lump in his throat at seeing one of his favorite pieces in this state. He'd seen too much that was precious be destroyed for one lifetime.

"The King is beloved for bringing peace and prosperity to what was once a backwater kingdom. Everyone respects him, and Reed is his son." Hank shrugged. "Most people hope that Prince Reed matures enough to take the helm by the time the King passes, but that's looking less likely by the day. He won't last as King, but with his father ill, he's already doing damage to the Kingdom's image and its coffers."

"I'm glad I did not end up in the service of such a person," Connor said. "I would have been bound to follow his orders, and I… I don't want to obey a man like that."

"You don't have to obey anyone ever again," Hank reassured him. "Not even me. If I do something awful, if I come home drunk and violent—I want you to defend yourself, do you hear me?"

"I couldn't hurt you, Hank. You've been incredibly kind to me." Connor shot Hank a small smile, and Hank felt the lump in his throat dissipate, like that smile held some kind of healing power over his broken heart. "I don't believe you would harm me."

"I destroyed that clock, didn't I? I've wanted to burn this entire shop to the ground many a night, when the melancholy gets up inside me. I can hardly judge Reed for doin' the same. I don't have the right. I've done a lot of stupid shit these past few years. Could be that Reed is sufferin' some loss himself, and us common folk got him all wrong." Hank shrugged. The bell for the front door tinkled out its alarm, and Hank hurried to the front, eager to serve his next customer.

***

When Hank closed up for the day and headed back into the workshop, he found ten working clocks lined up on the bench, and the work room cleaned and tidied. Connor stood in the corner, looking at a picture that had fallen out of a dusty old book. Hank knew the book—and the picture—extremely well. He looked at it at least once a week, usually when he was soused and maudlin. 

Connor held the creased, black-and-white photograph of Cole like it was a sacred object, and Hank couldn't decide if he was angry or relieved.

"This photograph of a child… you look at it often," Connor observed. "There are fingerprints all over the book, and the picture. The resemblance the boy bears to you is striking. He is your son, right?"

Hank nodded, his heart sinking to hear Connor describe his little boy. "Yeah… His name was Cole." He clammed up, the lump in his throat suddenly constricting his ability to breathe and speak. He couldn't tell Connor the story, even if he wanted to. His entire body rebelled against the idea, and he was grateful when Connor carefully slipped the photo back inside the book and returned it to its place on the shelf. He looked like he wanted to ask another question, the light on his head spinning yellow, but he said nothing, and for that, Hank was grateful.

"Thanks," Hank said, his voice raspy as he recovered the power of speech. "You didn't have to mend all those clocks in one day."

"They are not perfect. The World's Fair blimp will never fly above Detroit again, and the ballerina shall only dance to silence from now on. Sometimes, things cannot be returned to their original state. They can only be rebuilt from what remains." Connor's eyes bored into Hank's soul and Hank broke eye contact, wondering if it was possible the machine was talking about him, or if he was reading too much into things.

He wanted a drink, and he was ashamed of it. He wanted to be Connor's project, for the boy to take him apart and rebuild him piece by piece, but the human body and mind didn't allow for that kind of tinkering. Only he could hope to fix himself, and he knew already that he was a lost cause.

"It is what it is," Hank said instead. "The palace will pay me for the work regardless." He wandered into the kitchen to find a bite to eat, the whiskey eyeing him from the top shelf. He looked away from it as Connor entered and stood in the kitchen expectantly. Instead, Hank busied himself lighting a candle as the last daylight threatened to die completely and cast the kitchen into total darkness. The candle's flickering flame made Connor seem otherworldly and unreal, and Hank wondered if he reached out if Connor would collapse into his component pieces, nothing more than a fleeting magic remnant of something that had been long ago and was no more.

"What's the matter, Connor?" Hank asked.

"I can be whatever you want me to be, Hank," Connor blurted out. "Your apprentice, your partner… or just a machine, fixing other machines."

Hank's mouth fell open. What the hell was Connor thinking, talking like that? Was he even aware how much that sounded like a proposition? He imagined bending Connor over his kitchen table, pulling down his pants and stuffing his cock into whatever hole Connor had down there. Rutting into the pretty mechanical man until he came, using him roughly, aware that whatever he broke he could probably fix. Would Connor beg for more? Was he even capable of feeling pleasure or pain?

Hank glanced over at Connor's sweet face and shame flooded him. This miracle of engineering, this marvel of the ancient world, and here he was, imagining wrecking him in his own kitchen. He was no better than Reed. A more well-restrained animal, but an animal nonetheless. One leashed to his addictions who didn't deserve the gift he'd been given. Who didn't appreciate and admire beautiful things as they were meant to be admired, but secretly yearned to ruin them in an orgy of self-loathing and self-immolation.

Connor placed a hand on his arm, turning Hank to face him. Hank wanted nothing more than to give in and command Connor to serve him as he'd served the ancient king, but instead he pushed Connor away with the flat of his hand, needing to create distance between them before he said or did something he'd regret later.

Connor gave him the most hurt expression he'd ever seen, his big pupils wide enough to swallow them both. "I don't understand, Hank. You are lonely, and yet you keep me at arm's length."

"For your own safety," Hank said. "If you could see the thoughts inside my head, you would know to fear me the way you do Prince Reed. I could hurt you." He stared down at the floorboards, looking anywhere but at Connor's perfect face.

"I don't feel pain. I'm a machine," Connor replied.

"You can be damaged," Hank pointed out. His body seemed to move of its own accord, closing the gap between him and Connor until they were mere inches apart. Hank reached out and seized Connor by the shoulders. Hank could feel vibrations beneath Connor's outer hull, reminding him that Connor was nothing more than a collection of parts, and yet, he was so much more. Something incredible. Someone to cherish and protect.

His lips met Connor's. They were cool to the touch and yet in every other way, they felt human. Hank pulled away and Connor seized him, pulling him back into the kiss. Hank's cock stirred, his tongue pressing into the cavern of Connor's mouth, where he found a slightly metallic but not unpleasant taste. They pulled apart and Hank gazed into Connor's expression with awe, trying to process his feelings.

"Connor, I—"

The sound of breaking glass shattered the silence. Hank froze, gripping Connor protectively in his embrace. Armor rattled, thick boots crunching the glass underfoot as the intruder strode through the shop.

"I know you're in here," a familiar voice called out. Hank's blood froze in his veins. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. "Come on out, my pretty little mechanical man."

Prince Reed knew Connor was here, and he'd come to take him away.


	4. Chapter 4

Hank snuffed out the candle and stuffed Connor into the little bathroom, closing the door. It wasn't enough—not nearly enough, but it bought him a few moments in which to formulate some kind of plan. He cursed in the dark, lighting another candle just in time to see Reed looming in the doorway of his kitchen.

"Where is it? Where's the ancient weapon? I know you have it." Reed drew his sword and pointed the tip of it at Hank's throat. It glinted in the glow of the candlelight, bright and menacing. Hank didn't flinch, even when the point of it nestled in his facial hair and pricked his skin ever-so-slightly. He had no doubt that Prince Reed could kill him and cover it up, but he wasn't afraid to die. A part of him longed for it, even now. He would see his son again. That knowledge filled him with a boldness few others could have summoned in front of the unpredictable prince.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, Your Majesty," Hank replied. "I was just washing up before bed. It's late."

"Don't play games with me," Reed hissed. "The mechanical man. I know it's here. It limped towards this building, and it left blue oil on the front step which you failed to remove. After some digging, Guard Collins told me you've been acting strangely."

"Wanting to give up the sauce is bizarre, now?" Hank crossed his arms. "Maybe I'm just done with mournin'. It's been three years. I need to get on with my life."

"Enough with your games, clockmaker. I know you didn't have an epiphany all by yourself. You were quite content to drink yourself to death just a few days ago. What changed? Did you, by any chance, find an automaton on your front step with a sword slash across its abdomen? Did you take it in and put it back together, like you wish you could have done with your boy? Does it walk around your shop after hours, admiring the clocks like Cole did?"

"Don't you even speak my son's name," Hank snapped. "You haven't the right."

"As Prince of this country, I have every right, and your reaction tells me you're not done grieving at all," Reed observed. "That walking, talking monstrosity isn't a substitute for your son. It's a weapon that could destroy Windsor and end the war. Isn't that what you want? To have enough fine metals to make clocks again?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," Hank said. "I don't got your goddamn weapon."

"What if I could bring your son back to life?" Reed lowered his sword, choosing to pace the kitchen menacingly. His heavy boots thudded on the floorboards, the candlelight casting shadows on his face that made him look sinister and heartless. He picked up an apple from the bowl on the table, biting into it with a sickening crunch.

Hank's gut lurched as Reed's words registered. He'd heard rumors of wizards capable of dark magiks, during late nights at the tavern, but old folk were prone to superstition and he'd given the tales no credence. "It's not possible. Cole's dead."

"Neither is it possible to make life from clockwork, but you've seen it. The Ancients knew much that we would consider 'impossible', and such power is making a comeback in this world as we unearth the knowledge they had at their fingertips." Reed smirked. "Give me the automaton, Master Anderson. It's mine by rights. It serves the royal family. In return, I'll seek out the texts we've unearthed from the library in the ruins and see if something might be done."

Hank squeezed his eyes shut, forcing away the image of Cole, alive and in his arms once more. It was a lie. The dead didn't return to life. If the Ancients had solved the puzzle of life and death, they would have acceded to the level of gods, instead of their city lying in ruins.

"Perhaps those secrets were buried for a reason," Hank observed. "The ancient civilization may have been reduced to ash by its own hubris. Have you ever thought of that?"

"Enough talk," Reed said. "I've played nice. Give me the machine or I'll see to it that you hang. I'll tell every judge in this city that you engineered your son's death, and you'll be buried as a child killer, your clocks regarded as beautiful instruments created by a hideous beast." He smirked, and it might have been charming on a man with a heart. As it was, the machine hiding in the other room had more humanity than Reed.

"Stop." The door slid open and Connor emerged. Hank moved to defend him but Connor put his arm out, bidding him to stay back. "I will go with you willingly, on the condition that you leave Hank alone."

"Well, that makes things easier." Reed sheathed his sword as Connor shot Hank a glance that bored into the depths of his soul.

"Don't go," Hank pleaded. "He'll destroy you. He'll use you to murder innocents!"

"I know what I am, Hank. I am the bodyguard to a dead king, and a weapon to defend him, designed to be activated at a moment of great crisis. I could not save my civilization, but the kingdom of Detroit faces certain destruction." He wrapped his hand around Hank's wrist. "This city is all that remains of the descendants of a once great people. Let me carry out my duty and protect you."

"You'll cease to exist." Hank tore his wrist free and squeezed Connor by the shoulders, shaking him as if he could knock some sense into his malfunctioning mechanisms. "Don't you want to live?"

"I'm not alive," Connor observed. "I am a machine, designed to carry out a task, and my directive insists that I keep you safe." The conflict in his brown eyes was plain to see as he pulled himself away and walked out into the shop. Reed followed with a sneer of triumph written all over his face. The bell over the door tinkled once, twice, and then fell silent. Hank considered going after them, but what could he do? The mechanical man had made his choice. By morning, Windsor would be nothing more than a crater and Connor would be obliterated, reduced to nothing more than his component parts with nothing to prove he'd ever been more than a simple machine.

Hank wished he'd said more, done more. Maybe if he'd acted on his feelings, Connor might have stayed. The man had all but offered himself up to Hank on a platter, and Hank had turned him down out of the simple desire to be a gentleman.

_"I don't want to serve a man like that,"_ Connor had said. What had changed? Had Hank scared him off by warning him of the depths to which he could sink while drunk? Had Connor seen for himself that Hank wasn't a man worth following?

But they'd just kissed. The ghost of it lingered on his lips, still now, the touch of lips that were nothing like a human's, yet they'd felt right. Like they'd been made for him.

_"Let me carry out my duty and protect you."_ But, wasn't his duty to serve the royal family? Hank reached up to a dusty kitchen shelf and brought down an old bottle of cooking wine. He slumped at the table and pulled out the cork, downing the nasty liquid and coughing it back up. _"My directive insists that I keep you safe."_

Hank stood up, chuckling to himself as he wandered into his workshop, recalling one of his mother's stories. _"All families have their secrets, boy,"_ she said, twirling the ring she always wore on her finger. _"Your father's family were clockmakers for seven generations, but I'm nothing but a lesser noble from a forgotten line. My father used to claim we were related to the ancient royal family, but who can prove such a thing? He gave me this ring, but who's not to say he didn't filch it from the ruins himself?"_

Hank fumbled through the box he kept his mother's things in—her ashes in a box, her scarf, her ring—he grasped it and was shocked to realize it was glowing, the silver ring now ablaze in blue light shining outward from the triangles etched into its surface.

The same blue light that glowed from the indicator on Connor's temple, to be precise. Perhaps there was more to this old family legend than he'd previously thought. Hank's mother had always acted like she'd married above her station, that she wasn't worthy of his father and Hank had thought her story was nothing more than a fantasy she'd concocted to feel equal to the man she loved.

If it was true—than Connor was his by rights. Though it pained him to think of treating Connor like mere property to be inherited, he might be able to confuse Connor for long enough to stop him from destroying himself for Reed's plans.

He rushed from the shop, his drink forgotten, and hailed a horse-drawn carriage. He'd tried to avoid them since Cole's death, but with Connor's life on the line, he knew walking to the palace would take too long. He gritted his teeth in the back seat, determined to overcome this trial and save Connor from a terrible fate. He flicked a copper coin to the driver and jumped down from the carriage outside the palace, his old knees hurting from the impact. He hadn't moved like this since he'd scrambled to Cole's side, desperation giving him strength beyond normal human means.

"Hold it, Hank." Ben Collins was the gate guard tonight. "What are you doing here at this hour? You've been drinking, I smell it on you." Disappointment rang bitter in his voice, but Hank didn't have time to explain.

"I have to get through, Ben."

"Friends or not, Hank, I can't let a drunken commoner into the palace. I know Prince Reed took the mechanical man from your shop, but you have to let it go. It belongs to His Majesty, whether you like it or not. Rumor has it that behind that pretty face is a weapon that will end the war. Regardless of his methods, the prince just wants what's best for this Kingdom." He looked down at Hank's finger. "What's that ring, Hank? It's glowing. Is that… from the ruins? You've been to the ruins?"

"It was my mother's ring," Hank explained. "Please, let me through, Ben. I promise you, I'm unarmed. I have no ill intention towards His Majesty. I just want to see Connor one last time."

"You named it, huh?" Ben sighed. "Hank, it's not Cole."

"I know that. He's nothing like Cole, and he's not a child. I don't understand the technology that created him, but he's alive, Ben."

Ben shook his head. "I can't let you through, Hank. Let me take you home, and I'll see to it that the prince never learns of this."

"Please." Hank grabbed Ben's plated shoulders. "Just help me out this once, and I'll never ask for anythin' again. I swear it. I need to say goodbye. That's all."

"This is the last favor I do for you, old friend. After this, we're even. I won't cut you any more slack for what happened to Cole. Every drunken threat, every bar fight—you'll be thrown into the tank and brought before the court like any other commoner. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear." Hank clapped Ben on the back as Ben gestured for the gates to be opened. The huge wooden doors creaked open, and Hank wandered into the palace grounds. He made a beeline for the palace itself, ignoring the confused stares of guards and servants. Most knew him as the local clockmaker, and considered his royal warrant enough to place him beneath suspicion. He inspected the great grandfather clock in the main hall, mere feet away from the throne room itself, and waited for the guards to move away in order to sneak in.

The King sat upon his throne, lounging somewhat. He looked frail, the skin hanging from his bones and only the slight rise and fall of his chest told Hank he was still alive. Reed stood at the base of the throne, Connor down on one knee before the King.

"This is it?" The King asked. "This… boy… is a weapon?"

Reed nodded. "Its core is made of a mysterious, poisonous material the texts describe as "radioactive". Our best scientists have determined that it can be ordered to self-destruct, creating an explosion so powerful it will render Windsor uninhabitable for generations."

"Why place such a weapon inside a thing that seems almost human?" The King scratched his beard, and Hank realized he knew the answer.

"It's a power source." Hank spoke up, all eyes in the room turning to him. "Even a clock must be wound up form time to time. A machine such as this one would require far more power. But that's just this humble clockmaker's opinion."

"What are you doing here?" Reed spun on his heel, livid. Two guards seized Hank by the arms. Hank didn't put up a struggle.

"I just wanted to see him one last time," Hank explained. "Connor, look at me."

"Hank…" Connor stood up and turned, meeting Hank's gaze with his own. "I told you, I can't—" The ring glowed fiercely, and Connor's LED resonated to match.

"You know who I am, Connor." Hank snatched his hand free and held up his hand for all to see the ring. "My mother's story was true, wasn't it? I'm descended from the ancient king. I'm your rightful master."

"Yes. I was able to analyze your saliva when our lips met. I am sorry for the deception."

Hank gestured to Reed. "So why go with him?"

"I have to protect you. This is the only way. Windsor, too, plans to end the war. They have ancient technology of their own." Connor closed his eyes. "When I served the ancient king, the two kingdoms were one—twin cities across a lake. I can sense the presence of another unit like myself. It is crossing the river towards Detroit as we speak, and it is more powerful than I. If we do not strike before it does, Detroit will be destroyed."

"Well, that settles it," Reed declared. "Are you happy now, Master Anderson? The automaton has spoken. It must carry out its orders and destroy Windsor. Now go home before I find you a jail cell to spend the rest of your days in."

Hank hung his head. He'd come all this way for nothing. He couldn't save Connor, no matter his bloodline. It was irrelevant. If he ordered Connor to stand down, Detroit would be destroyed. If he let Connor carry out his mission, Windsor would be reduced to toxic ashes and Connor would be killed.

"You shouldn't have got mixed up in all this," Connor said. He turned to Reed. "I'll need your fastest carriage to reach the river."

"You'll have it. And the royal steamboat is at your service." Reed glared at Hank as he walked by. "Believe it or not, I have the best interests of this country at heart. Don't get in my way." He marched through the double doors, Connor in tow, and the mechanical man shot Hank a sad, apologetic glance as he walked by.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some heavy angst in this chapter, including a flashback to Cole's death. There's also a blowjob scene in the back of a carriage. I don't want to spoil anything, but I do want to say: have some faith. I have a plan on how this is going to end.

Hank paused for a moment before following Connor out of the palace. He chased Connor through the grounds, only catching up to him outside the front gates. 

"Don't do it, Connor," Hank yelled after him. "Millions of innocents will be killed." Hank grasped Connor's arm, preventing him from getting into the royal carriage that Prince Reed was flagging over. "Think twice!"

Connor squeezed Hank's arm before pulling Hank off him with extraordinary, yet measured strength. "I must go if I am to reach the lake in time to intercept the other machine. You may come with me, if you wish."

"Don't get in the way, Hank," Prince Reed sneered, abandoning all pretense of respect for his profession. "I don't give a damn who you're descended from."

"I'm not here for your throne," Hank pointed out, as he climbed into the carriage. He thought Reed would follow for a moment, but his guards held him back. It was too risky for the Crown Prince to head into danger, and Reed spat on the ground as the carriage pulled away, clearly unhappy.

"Why did you let me come? You must know I intend to stop you." Hank sat down on one of the benches inside the cramped carriage. His huge knees touched Connor's opposite him, and he fought the urge to finish what they'd started at his home. There was no time for such dalliances, but Hank couldn't help but feel Connor was slipping away from him forever. There was no way he'd survive this, was there? Hank would lose someone else important to him and the thought of that tied his intestines in knots.

"I want you to be with me, at the end," Connor admitted. "Forgive me. It is a selfish request. You've suffered enough loss." He knitted his hands together in his lap. "You should be the king of Detroit. Reed's family has stolen the throne from its ancient heirs."

"I have no desire to rule," Hank said. "I only ever wanted simple things. My precious clocks, and my wonderful son. I was content with that, until I lost it all." He closed his eyes. "When Reed claimed he could bring my son back to life, I—I faltered, Connor."

"It's all right," Connor soothed. He leaned forward and placed his hands over Hank's. "I'm yours to use as you see fit, and I serve you with joy." He parted Hank's palms, pushing his arms away and reaching for his belt. "There are still a few minutes before we reach the shore. Let me give you one last gift."

"I can't ask this of you. Sex isn't a duty to be performed," Hank protested.

"You are right. This is a pleasure I indulge in for pleasure's sake, if you'll forgive me for wanting something for myself." Connor knelt down on the floor of the carriage as he freed Hank's erect cock from his pants. "Ever since I met you, I longed to be yours. It was my wish that you might be the descendant of the royal bloodline. My prayer was heard, Hank." He held Hank's cock in his hand and leaned in to kiss it. Hank gasped as he ran his tongue up the underside of it. He clutched the bench as Connor consumed him, the entirety of his huge cock slipping into Connor's mouth and throat. The boy kept his eyes on the prize as he sucked and slurped on Hank's cock, his mouth lubricated with some kind of synthetic saliva that dribbled from the edges of his lips. It made Hank's exposed length glisten in the low light as Connor bobbed on it. He'd never felt anything like it in his life, but he knew it couldn't last.

Like his clocks, even time itself would someday grind to a standstill, but it refused to do so today. Hank knew all this and more as Connor worked him. He buried his fingers in Connor's soft hair, wishing he knew all the secrets of this wonderful creation. 

Connor's hands gently cupped his balls, kneading them as he sucked, and Hank felt them tighten and draw up as he neared orgasm. With a strangled groan, he came, his seed spilling down Connor's throat. Connor sucked every drop out of him until it was too much and he had to withdraw. He tucked his wet dick back into his pants, making himself presentable. Looking at Connor, he saw a drop of cum dribbling from his mouth and thumbed it away with a chuckle. Connor was so beautiful that it took his breath away to see him like this, to know that he'd performed a sex act on Hank because he wanted to. He took a second to revel in the joy of feeling loved and needed again, something he'd not experienced in a long time.

He couldn't lose Connor. Not like this. He didn't know if it was possible to love a machine, but he loved Connor, this pretty mechanical man who had turned his life upside down. It was too late to realize that now, though, as the carriage came to a stop lakeside. They paused, each waiting for the other to say something until they ran out of time.

"It's here," Connor said, pulling back the curtain to look outside. Hank saw a figure moving on the beach, an unmistakable blue glow emanating from its temple. "Hank, I—"

"No goodbyes. Come back to me, Connor," Hank insisted.

"You know that's not possible, if I am to keep you safe. I must defeat this machine and cross to Windsor, where I will detonate my power core and end this brutal war." He looked back at Hank, a sad smile etched on his face. "I wish I could live out my life with you, making clocks and running the shop. I was happier than I'd ever been since my activation." He opened the carriage door and rushed out into the night before Hank could protest. Hank bid the driver to move with a knock on the back wall and the carriage took off, putting distance between them and the beach in case something should go horribly wrong.

It started to thunder, a slow drizzle turning into sheets of rain that beat down on the carriage like a war drum. Hank knocked on the back of the carriage once more to tell the driver to stop, but it was three times until he was heard over the noise of the weather and the horses' hooves. Eventually the driver yelled to his horses and with a crack of a whip they slowed down to a full stop. Hank opened the door and tossed the driver a silver piece, a bribe of sorts to buy his silence if he'd heard any noises from the carriage.

"Where are you going in this weather?" The driver asked. "Surely not back to that beach?"

"I have to go," Hank replied. "Return to the castle and tell the Prince you delivered the package here safely." The carriage took off, horses neighing in protest at the harsh conditions. Hank's clothes hung heavy on his frame, waterlogged and heavy, but he ignored his discomfort in his haste.

A guard called to him from a doorway. Hank almost ignored him, but he realized he was ill-equipped to face an ancient automaton, and this guard was armed.

"Hand me your sword," Hank ordered. The man didn't know him, but the authority in Hank's voice was enough to make the man relent. Hank took the blade and continued his trek through the storm, not even bothering to strap the sword belt to his hip.

The beach was alive with a blue glow when Hank made it to the cast iron railings. A flash of lightning hit the water, illuminating the two machines locked in heated combat on the sand below. Both automatons were damaged. One was missing an arm. It was hard to tell who was who when both machines wore the same soft face. If they were human, they would have been twins. Hank observed, trying to figure out how he could be of use.

The machine with the missing arm faltered. It let out a large screech, and the glow seemed to emanate through the damage to its chest plate. Hank supposed that had to be the power core, the bomb that could destroy Windsor and everyone in it.

The question was: which machine was the real Connor and which was the interloper sent from Windsor? They looked identical, right down to their clothing. Hank strode down onto the beach, kicking the wet sand as he went. The two machines paused their battle, turning to look at him. Hank unsheathed his sword, tossing the scabbard aside. It had been years since he'd held a sword, but he could still fight. The disciplines afforded to him during his mandatory military service remained with him, never forgotten despite his lack of need for them until now. He circled the mechanical men, trying to get a sense of who was who. One automaton was missing its voice box, a giant gash in its throat rendering it speechless, and the other had taken facial damage that left any attempt to form words pointless. All it could manage was formless utterances without lips and a tongue to speak. Asking questions to discern their identity was a futile endeavor.

Hank had a flash of inspiration. Hadn't Windsor and Detroit once been one united kingdom? He held up his mother's ring. "I'm the heir to the royal bloodline. You both have to obey me. Stop this at once. Stand down."

The machine with the damaged face smiled a twisted smile and tore off its chest plate, revealing its core. It seemed to glow brighter than the sun, blinding Hank as it gathered energy. Hank lunged forward without the aid of sight, and with one decisive swing of his sword, lopped the mechanical man's head clean off its body. It landed in a heap, wires sparking from where they'd been severed. Those familiar eyes stared blankly into the void, and the memory of Cole's dead stare seized Hank in place, panic gripping him as he relived that night over again.

_"Cole…" Hank pulled himself from the wrecked carriage. It had hit a gas lantern, and was burning quickly. One of the horses was dying, an apparent heart attack making it stagger as the other horses bolted in panic, bound to the burning wood and their dying brother. Hank saw Cole in its path as the great beast lurched and collapsed._

_"COLE!" Hank screamed. He remembered little after that. He'd tried to pull the beast off Cole. Ben had helped him, but by the time they moved the dead weight off the boy, he was—_

_Prince Reed's carriage pulled up. "Whatever is happening here, Guard Collins?" Ben had freed the other horses from the harness with the help of the driver, and the driver led them away to the stables._

_"It's his boy," Ben said sadly. "A horrific tragedy."_

_"You have to help me!" Hank screamed. He climbed the carriage and pulled on Reed's cloak, practically dragging him over to Cole's body. "Please do something, anything…"_

_"Get this man off me!" Reed yelled, wiping his sleeves where Hank had touched him. "It's too late. The boy is dead. There's nothing anyone can do." He narrowed his eyes. "If you weren't so cheap as to hire a peasant carriage, the boy might still be alive. It's your fault, Master Anderson. The royal warrant grants you the money to own a carriage of your own and live like the noble class, yet you choose to play the part of the eccentric old inventor and hoard your coin, subjecting your boy to a commoner's fate." He marched back to his carriage as Hank looked on in horror, Cole's eyes fixed into a stare as if to ask why, why hadn't he just spent the coin…_

A hand shook his arm, jerking him back to the present and he looked up to see the overload hadn't stopped with the machine's destruction. The core was glowing brighter and brighter, too much to look at as it continued to cycle up too much power. Such energy had to go somewhere, and it was unlikely he'd be able to contain it here on the beach.

Connor—for it had to be him standing there, didn't it?—cupped Hank's face between his hands and kissed him full on the lips. Hank dropped his sword in surprise, and reached up a moment too late to grab Connor's tattered sleeve as he fled. Connor scooped up the torso of his dead twin off the sand and ran towards the waves. The only chance they had was to dowse the machine beneath water, but that would mean—

"Connor, no!" Hank yelled. He started to run, but Connor was faster, and he was only a few steps down the beach by the time Connor jumped into the waves and disappeared. Every few seconds he caught a glimmer of light beneath the water, fading as it got further away. The rain slowed, leaving a tremendous, pregnant silence in its wake between rumbles of thunder.

It happened in a split second. A huge explosion rocked the bay, sending water hundreds of feet up into the air. Hank ran from the beach as massive waves hit the shore, threatening to consume him. The water tore at nearby houses, drawing them into the sea as people took to the streets, making for higher ground as the calamity presented itself.

Hank looked behind him to see the waves begin to recede, the choppy waters beginning to settle down, and he walked back towards the railing, hoping against hope that the waves might part and Connor might walk out from the sea. He watched the waves return to calm, his eyes barely understanding what he'd witnessed.

It hit him that Connor was gone. He'd sacrificed himself to save Detroit and Windsor by going down with the foreign machine.

Hank felt like his heart had been ripped out a second time. He thought about walking into the ocean to follow Connor into the afterlife, but his mother's ring glinted on his finger. It reminded Hank that Connor had died protecting Hank's life, and he would be a fool to waste that sacrifice. All he could do now was go home and try to forget the mechanical man he'd loved was nothing more than component parts floating in the bay.

Alcohol was definitely part of that plan. Sobriety had been a distant dream, and he'd been a fool to believe he could give up the drink for good. He didn't deserve happiness, and so there was only the bottom of a bottle to return home to instead of a perfect young man named Connor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: There is penis-in-vagina sex in this, (he's transdroid Connor) Connor's parts are referred to as hole, sleeve, and slit. There is also some alcohol abuse/alcoholism.
> 
> Enjoy the conclusion to Hank and the Mechanical Man!

"Put him in the tank." Ben sighed as the soldiers under his command threw Hank to the ground and stepped out of the cell. The gate squealed as it closed at an excruciating pitch, slamming shut at a volume that made Hank wince. Puke covered the front of his waistcoat, and he had no idea what day it was. All he knew was that death was preferable to the torment of his physical body.

Ben turned the key in the lock with a heavy sigh. "You've gotta move on from this, Hank. I told you I wouldn't protect you any more, and I meant it. It's time for you to stop living in the past."

"This ain't about Cole," Hank slurred. "Connor was my… my salvation, and now he's gone. They all leave me, Ben." Hank gripped the bars, shaking them. "Why do they all leave me? Are you gonna leave me too?"

"It was just a machine," Ben protested. "It may have looked real, but it wasn't. It was a weapon. One that almost destroyed this city." He paused. "It's for the best it's gone. The King ordered the ruins excavation halted and commanded that all artifacts are to be returned to the dig site."

"What?" Hank sat back on the floor in filth, his mouth hanging open in shock. "Why? I thought he was bedridden?"

"His Majesty has made a surprise recovery from his illness. If the gossipers at court are to be believed, Prince Reed was poisoning his food, and at the first taste of real responsibility, he realized he didn't want to be King for a few more years yet. Take that with a grain of salt." Ben shrugged. "There's no way to know if there's any truth to it. Regardless, the ruins are closed and heavily guarded by elite soldiers."

"Windsor… they still…" Hank shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Yeah. Funny about that." Ben shrugged. "There was a mysterious accident at their dig site. The entire excavation collapsed. Spies say it'll be years before they can reach that depth again. Maybe it's a blessing, Hank. We have no business meddling in ancient technology. Our own inventions have our hands full. Especially when it comes to distilled spirits." He hooked the key onto his belt. "Now sober up, for heaven's sake. It's been four weeks since the tragedy at the beach. Some folks lost their lives down there. I don't mean to sound insensitive, but your life goes on. Don't disrespect the dead by throwing it away." He wandered out of sight, leaving Hank to wallow in his own misery.

Hank leaned his head back against the wall, aware he was alone in the cell. He felt wretched, weak, and lost. Detroit was safe, but he took no joy in it. Connor had deserved to live, but Hank had failed him, just like he'd failed Cole.

The ring felt heavy on his finger. His bloodline was worthless, if he couldn't even use it to protect the ones he loved. He squeezed his eyes shut. It would all end with him. There was nobody to take on his trade and keep Detroit's clocks in working order. His craft and his passion would die with him, grinding to a halt like the cogs inside Connor's mechanical body.

Perhaps it was for the best that everything from the ancient world perished. Including him. Everyone would be better off. They would… He started to sob, tears and snot dripping down his face. He wiped his nose on his coat and lay down on the floor, the cold stone a welcome balm for his burning cheeks.

_"Hank… I need help…"_

Hank jerked bolt upright. That voice—it couldn't be… He looked around the cell, but he was still alone, the only sound the rain dripping from a hole in the the ceiling into a bucket with a steady drip.

A hallucination, then? Had to be. He wanted to believe he'd heard Connor's sweet voice, but Connor was dead. All he was hearing was an afterimage, some buried memory brought forth by the alcohol he'd consumed. He lay back down, tears springing fresh from his eyes until his exhausted body fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.

***

"Get up, Hank." The clink of the key in the lock woke Hank, but he kept his eyes squeezed shut as Ben's heavy boots thudded on the stone floor. Hank's head pounded, but the tone of Ben's voice told him the man had no plans to be gentle. Ben's boot nudged his cheek.

"Get off," Hank snarled. "Can't you just leave me alone?"

"I told you I wasn't gonna go easy on you any more, Hank. You've used up the last of your favors with me." Ben dragged Hank to his feet. "Go home. I've got work to do and real criminals to apprehend." Hank shook him off, straightening his waistcoat and trying to ignore the stains on it. He knew he looked awful, but he had to preserve some semblance of dignity and walk out of the prison on his own two legs. Once he was home, he could start drinking again. The shop wasn't opening today. To hell with the nobles and their damn clocks.

The dawn's orange light was blinding, and Hank squinted to keep as much of it out as possible as he walked home, head down like a kicked puppy. He knew he was a sight, his waistcoat covered in vomit stains, his coat torn, his pants covered in whatever cesspool he'd slept in last night, but he didn't care. He was aware of eyes following him as he walked, but he paid them no mind. Let people stare. What was the worst thing that could happen to him now?

He reached his shop and fumbled with the key, reminded of the night he'd found Connor on his step. That was a million years ago now. It might as well have been another life entirely. He'd died twice now—once with his son and again with Connor. Hopefully the third time would be a charm and he'd find peace at last. He swung open the door, stepping inside before slamming it so hard the little bell broke. Let it. Nothing mattered any more. Let the shop burn to the ground with him inside it.

He wandered into the kitchen, which was bathed in a dim orange glow through the closed curtains. He didn't register the shadow sitting at his table immediately, but once he did, he rushed to the curtains and tore them open. He spun around on his heel, expecting the illusion to vanish, but instead Connor's pretty face, unblemished and smiling, looked up at him with those soft brown eyes.

Hank opened his mouth to speak, but his lips flapped uselessly. He called his soaring heart to heel, knowing that this couldn't be his Connor. Even if he'd survived the explosion, his boy had been damaged, his throat slashed, his pretty voice twisted beyond recognition. This shiny, brand new automaton couldn't be the same machine. Even Connor had failed to completely restore some of the clocks he'd worked on. To fix himself like this would be impossible.

"It's me, Hank. It's Connor," Connor said, as if he'd lifted the question straight out of Hank's mind. All Hank could do was stand frozen to the spot, expecting Connor to disappear as the drunken hallucination he was. This was the same bullshit trick his mind had played on him in the cell, convincing him that he heard Connor's voice. He paused, waiting for the kicker which was bound to come. Good things didn't happen to him. People—even mechanical ones—didn't return from the dead.

"That's not possible," Hank growled. "You died!"

Connor nodded. "My predecessor was unfortunately destroyed. However, I was designed to be a bodyguard for the royal family, and my duty involves risk. Upon that unit's deactivation, my memory was transferred into a replacement unit stored underground in the ruins. From there, it was simply a matter of escaping the guarded dig site and making my way back here, to you."

Hank surged forward and lifted Connor out of his chair by the front of his shirt. "You knew you could come back and didn't tell me? I thought you were dead!" He pushed Connor backwards with the flat of his hand, needing some distance. He turned to the kitchen counter and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, gulping it down like water.

"Hank? I don't understand why you are upset."

"Fuck you! People don't just fucking come back, Connor. They don't—" He stifled a sob, thinking about Cole crushed beneath the horse. He would never see his boy again. Death was final for humans, a cruel, long separation.

But Connor wasn't human, and had never claimed to be such. He was a machine created by Hank's ancestors as a guardian, and he was just doing his duty by protecting Hank. Hank swallowed, trying to compose himself.

"You should go, Connor. You don't have to serve me any more. I'm no king, no matter what blood runs in my veins. I'm just an old man who's lost his way, and I won't drag you down with me." Hank took another swig from the bottle, refusing to look at Connor, fearing he'd lose his resolve if he did.

"I want to stay, Hank. I came back for you. I came back because—because I love you." Connor grabbed Hank's arm, turning him around. Hank saw Connor's eyes filled with tears, his boyish face uncertain and fearful. 

"It wasn't easy to return," Connor continued. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know if any of the replacement units were still functional. I didn't want to give you false hope. I had to transfer my memory through four different units before I found one that worked. This is the last unit remaining. My last life. I want to spend it with you, as your partner, if you'll have me."

"Well of course, that's what you're programmed to say, but what do you really want?" Hank asked.

"I haven't followed my programming for quite some time," Connor confessed. "Initially, I came to the city seeking to serve, but when Prince Reed attacked me, something changed. I believe the attack caused me to deviate from my programming."

"That means—everything you did—it was all of your own volition?" Hank asked.

"That's right, Hank. Your bloodline doesn't matter to me. It never did. All I wanted was to keep you safe. You showed me kindness, and I fell in love with you." Connor managed a wan smile, and Hank's heart melted. "Please, Hank. Let me stay. I'll help you with your work. Everybody believes I'm dead, so nobody will be looking for me now. The threat from Windsor has been eliminated. I sensed a large explosion across the river. I suspect a unit malfunctioned and destroyed the ruins."

Hank stepped forward, his body acting of its own accord, as if he was the one functioning on instructions. He grasped Connor's face and leaned in for a kiss, capturing his lips. He was aware he smelled awful, but Connor didn't seem to care, opening his mouth to take Hank's tongue. Hank felt himself quicken, his arousal growing as he ground against Connor, his hangover forgotten. Connor rutted against him, and Hank could feel the shape of his slit beneath his tight pants.

"I wanted to go slow," Hank muttered. "Wanted to do this right, make love to you like you deserve."

"This is my last life," Connor reminded him. "I don't want to waste a moment of it. Please, Hank." He unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down, exposing his gorgeous slit, already glistening with lubricant. He stepped out of his pants and climbed up onto the kitchen table, spreading himself wide for Hank.

Hank bit his lip, wishing he had the self-control to save this for later, but he couldn't stop himself. He might wake later to find this all a lie, and he had to seize the chance now. He licked his lips as he reached forward, spreading Connor's hole wide to expose the pink sleeve designed for his dick. He hooked his hands around Connor's legs, hauling him to the edge of the table, and quickly unbuckled his pants. His heavy dick fell out and he teased it against Connor's hole, covering it in lubricant.

"Please," Connor gasped, his cheeks colored pink in the imitation of a blush. Hank smiled despite himself, thinking that if this was all a dream, it was the sweetest one he'd ever had. He lined himself up with Connor's hole and pushed inside.

Connor was like velvet squeezing his dick, and it was all Hank could do not to come right away. He focused on the last vestiges of his headache and the aching joints he had from sleeping on the floor to hold himself back, kissing Connor while he waited for his tight balls to relax. Connor was a marvel, a masterpiece no human in this era could replicate, and now he truly was the last of his kind. Much like Hank, the end of a line that had continued for over a thousand years.

Connor threw back his head, revealing his throat. Hank kissed the webbing there, marveling at how sensitive Connor was as he began to thrust inside him, the sleeve inside Connor squeezing his dick like nothing else he'd ever experienced. Hank knew he couldn't last, and so he concentrated on fucking Connor hard, the automaton begging for more as Hank reduced him to incoherent babbling and begging.

"Come inside me, Hank," Connor pleaded. "Use me as your pleasure doll. I'm so close, I—" His voice turned to static as he convulsed, the sleeve inside him squeezing the life out of Hank's dick and driving him over the edge.

"Fuck, Connor," Hank gasped, and he didn't fight it when his balls tightened this time. He pumped thick wads of cum deep inside Connor's hole, guttural sounds leaving his throat involuntarily. He collapsed on top of Connor, gasping for breath, wondering how an old drunk like him had gotten so lucky.

"I love you so much, Connor," Hank mumbled. He pulled out of Connor, admiring the way his semen trickled out of Connor's hole and onto the table. Connor sat up and Hank drew him into a long, slow kiss.

"I love you too, Hank. I take it I can stay?"

"Of course you can stay, Connor," Hank whispered, pulling Connor into his arms. "Of course you can stay." They remained like that for a long moment. Exhaustion dragged at Hank, luring him to his warm bed. He'd planned to leave the shop closed today, anyway.

He picked Connor up, carrying him into the bedroom, where he lay him down on the mattress and proceeded to strip him naked. He lost his own clothes and curled up next to Connor, holding him tightly.

"Tell me you're not a dream, Connor, and that you'll be here when I wake up," Hank muttered.

"I'll be here when you wake up," Connor whispered. "I promise."

***

He was there when Hank woke up. Connor loomed over him, his smile almost glowing in the flickering candlelight. Hank pinched himself to check he wasn't dreaming. Perhaps he'd died in that squalid cell, and everything afterwards had been the afterlife.

Or maybe they were really here, together, the impossible possible after all. He silently thanked his ancestors for having the foresight to create a being so incredible it could survive even death.

"What'cha doin'?" Hank asked, satisfaction and relief flooding through his veins. He had to fight the tears that welled in his eyes, sudden emotion overwhelming him.

"Counting the hairs on your chest," Connor explained. "I'm up to three thousand, four hundred and two." He planted a kiss on Hank's lips, his LED glowing blue. "I'm still here, Hank. I didn't vanish while you were sleeping."

"I heard your voice when I was in the tank last night. Calling for help. That was a hallucination. Forgive me for thinkin' this was, too." He caressed Connor's cheek, allowing himself to believe this was reality and not some fever dream or afterimage.

Connor smiled. "We have a business to attend to, Hank. Those clocks aren't going to fix themselves."

"Right." Hank grinned, sitting up. "Got a whole box of busted clocks that need fixin'. But first, dinner. I'm starving, Connor."

"I, too, could use some oil and a tune-up. If you're not adverse to tinkering with me?"

"I'm quite happy to put my hands all over you and inside you, Connor." Hank pinned Connor down, planting kisses all over his face. "I'm gonna keep you in tip-top condition, partner."

Connor smiled. "I need you to check my intimate parts. Perhaps—lubricate them?"

"Sounds like fun," Hank smirked. Oh, he couldn't wait to make Connor scream in the back room after hours. But first, there was a store to tidy up. Clocks to fix. Things to learn from Connor and teach to Connor. Alcohol to be poured out into the street.

He wasn't going to waste this second chance at happiness.

~Fin


End file.
